


(it gives me sexual arousal.)

by softly (alexenglish)



Category: Marvel, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bad Flirting, Marvel Universe, Meet-Cute, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 02:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/softly
Summary: I hate it when you leave but I love to look at your butt while you walk away.





	(it gives me sexual arousal.)

**Author's Note:**

> this is an accompanying work to [Wear It Like A Bruise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582356), set a little over a year before that when they meet for the first time. 
> 
>  
> 
> [a softer world project](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/asofterworld)

 

The first time Wade meets Zayn, they’re on a roof.

He won’t say which roof because he doesn’t actually know. For all the time he’s spent in New York, he still doesn’t really know… places or things. They’re mostly like, ‘the building with the pointy top -- no, not that one, the one by the flat roof that hits it at three-quarters’ and ‘the medium-tall building by the shawarma place Spidey likes’ and ‘that one where all the models hang out.’

He’s not trying to be (very) creepy, but ‘that one where all the models hang out’ has a really great, unobstructed view for like, blocks. And the view _inside_ isn’t bad either -- what with the various states of undress, and various models, and various celebrities. He and whatever Kardashian, or similar, lives inside kind of have this unspoken agreement. He gets to lurk and they can take whatever pictures of him they need for their social media currency.

Sometimes he gets h’orderves as well, or the little pigs in a blanket, chocolate covered strawberries, shrimp cocktails, etcetera, etcetera. People offer him drinks too, but then he has to explain about his metabolism and everyone gets bored, so he says he’s on duty and that is the that of that.

Anyway, Zayn Malik.

As far as Wade knows, from his extensive research and obsession with Zayn Malik’s eyelashes, said popstar turns into a social recluse when there are no release dates in sight, so seeing him at whatever shindig whatever model is throwing throws Wade for a loop so hard he has to convince himself he’s not hallucinating (again) when Zayn comes out onto the roof with a cigarette behind his ear.

It’s technically not a roof, is it?

The first time Wade meets Zayn, they’re on the balcony of a penthouse apartment during a model-hosted, celeb-packed, champagne-fountain-having _rager_.

There, better.

Anyway, Zayn.

Zayn, with a face and body that puts all the models in the apartment behind him to shame. He’s wearing all black. Pants, shirt, boots, leather jacket. His hair is grow out à la Tom Ford 2016, with his beard groomed nice and tight. Fuck.

“Is this real or am I dreaming?” Wade asks, out loud since he already asked himself in his head and couldn’t come to a reasonable conclusion. He has to project his voice a little. He’s all the way at the end of the balcony, sitting on the fancy stone wall that separates anyone on the patio from open air and certain death, kicking his feet over the busy boulevard below.

Zayn’s head snaps up, frown between his gorgeously thick eyebrows. His (slightly chapped) plush lips are already around the filter of his cigarette, but he plucks it out to gape at Wade for a moment.

The feeling is mutual, buddy.

“Holy shit,” Zayn says. His voice is a sweet mumble of round vowels that Wade wishes he could physically burrow into and live out the rest of his abnormally long life in.

“Not a dream?” Wade asks, just to clarify.

“Unless we’re having the same one,” Zayn says, blinking rapidly. His beautifully long eyelashes flutter hypnotically before he shakes his perfectly shaped head and brings his cigarette back to his lips.

He watches Wade as he lights it -- because the universe hates Wade and wants him to suffer -- cheeks hollowing out as his mouth pulls tight, eyes all doe-like and large, reflecting the flame of his lighter.

“That is possible,” Wade muses, feeling himself go warm as Zayn inhales sharply and exhales a cloud of smoke -- away from Wade’s general direction, like a goddamn gentleman. “There are people who would do that to hurt my feelings.”

Zayn looks startled once again. “What? Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re questioning,” Wade admits, watching Zayn come closer. It’s a cautious sort of creep, but Wade will take it. He spins around so his legs are on the inside of the wall instead of the outside, facing Zayn.

“Uhm, like,” Zayn shrugs, takes a drag, flicks his cigarette -- then flicks it again, nervously. “Why would someone do that? Why would it like, hurt your feelings?”

“Oh!” Wade didn’t mean it like that. “I meant that in the Millennial sense. Something is so good it’s painful. It’s definitely good -- probably _too_ good.”

His system doesn’t handle excitement as easily as it does other strong emotions. Not this kind of excitement anyway. Usually all he has is the excitement he gets from radical endangerment and fear drenched adrenaline, and that’s not ‘normal’ per se. This is different. This is universally exciting.

A very pretty smile draws the corners of Zayn’s mouth upwards as he looks at the ground shyly. Wade wants to coo at him. And also pat his head. And maybe kiss his face a little bit.

Wade doesn’t do any of those things, but he _wants_ to.

“‘M Zayn,” Zayn says, holding out his free hand for Wade to shake.

Wade’s heart valiantly tries to leap up his throat -- so it can throw itself at Zayn, Wade is assuming -- but it doesn’t get anywhere considering it’s secured as well as it can be inside his chest cavity. Regardless, Wade counts it as a win. Spewing organs doesn’t make a good first impression, not really. He tries to save that for like, the fourth or fifth date.

He has the overwhelming urge to take his glove off for the handshake, but he manages to not do that since it would be absolutely ridiculous. Totally gross, endlessly self-wounding skin doesn’t make a good first impression either.

Predictably Wade says, “I know,” before he takes the proffered hand, a kaleidoscope of butterflies in his stomach. “Deadpool,” he adds. “DP, if you’re nasty.”

Zayn laughs at that. A big, surprised one that makes him tip his head back and press his tongue to the back of his teeth.

“A’ight, DP,” Zayn says, something teasing in his voice that makes Wade want to faint face first into the solid concrete floor of the patio -- do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars, just die happily where he’s sitting. They’ll have to scrape him off the pavement with a spatula.

Ha, spatula...

“You can’t tell, but I’m blushing,” Wade says. He is, actually. His face feels like it’s on fire, which is a feeling he knows better than most people considering the amount of times he’s been set on fire or accidentally set himself on fire (three, total).

“That’s a pretty massive accomplishment,” Zayn says, taking another drag.

He’s at the wall now, casually leaning against it as he smokes, looking out over the city. Wade is absolutely not freaking out about the definite lack of space between his leather-clad leg and Zayn’s leather-clad arm. (Except that he totally is.)

“What are you doing out here?” Wade asks, keeping his voice light. He kicks his boots against the wall. He’s tempted to like, whistle one of Zayn’s songs so Zayn _knows_ , but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s trying too hard.

He’ll definitely try hard, but it’s best to play it cool at first, right? He doesn’t know. It’s been awhile since he’s been around someone he actively wants to impress. Wade’s been in the presence of the Devil himself -- themself?; he doesn’t think demons do the gender thing, he has that in common with them… Anyway, Wade’s been in the presence of the _Devil_ and didn’t give a shit, but Zayn Malik is a whole other story.

“Got a bit stuffy inside,” Zayn says, jerking his thumb towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that allows them an exceptional view of the shenanigans going on inside. The ratio of clothing to skin is disproportionate in favor of skin.

“All those great tits,” Wade sighs. “Most days, I wish I had great tits.” He cups his hands in front of his chest and tries to arrange his face in a way that makes his mask really show how despondent he is about the whole thing.

“I’m sure your tits are fantastic,” Zayn says, laughing again. A throaty little chuckle that sounds nice and warm.

If Wade were still human, he’d be seriously concerned about how hard his heart is pounding. Right now, he’s just disappointed that it isn’t actually punching through the inside of his rib-cage. He’s pretty sure that’s possible, this is fiction.

“Mister Malik,” Wade squeals, folding his hands over his chest in faux-shock. “ _Manners_ , please.”

Zayn laughs again, ducking his head. Wade’s pretty sure he made Zayn Malik blush. Score.

“My bad,” Zayn says, grinning at Wade and like, Wade knew Zayn smiled more than his broody magazine photoshoots lead most people to believe -- Wade’s obsession with Zayn’s eyelashes does extend to behind-the-scenes videos on YouTube, and there is _so much_ smiling -- but this is something else entirely.

“What are you doing here, then?” Zayn asks, after it’s been silent for three whole seconds and Wade is desperately trying to think of a topic to propel them into more conversation. Oh, good.

“Enjoying the view,” Wade says, twisting and gesturing over his shoulder. He moves a little too far, whole body tilting back in a way that suggests he might tip over the edge, but not _quite_ \--

Even so, Zayn makes a shouty noise of distress and grabs Wade’s leg with his right hand, cigarette dropping to the street below -- as if that would do anything for Wade if his body did decide to follow that momentum off the wall --

Okay, not the best thing to be thinking about while Zayn Malik is touching him --

Oh his fucking god, Zayn Malik is _touching_ him.

“Holy shit,” Wade squeaks. What a perfect set up. What a great segue. What a deus ex machina, but not actually -- a deus ex meet-cute.

“Uhm,” Zayn says, staring up at Wade with his pretty Bambi eyes. He looks kinda freaked.

“I wasn’t going to fall,” Wade reassures him, staring at his hand. It’s pretty big. Wade hasn’t had anything to compare to before since he hasn’t ever met Zayn in real life, but it’s a really nice hand with really nice tattoos on it. “But I appreciate you trying to save my life.”

“Shit,” Zayn says, laughing awkwardly. He stops touching Wade, shoulders going up to his ears, tense.

“No, that’s fine,” Wade says quickly. He leans over and grabs Zayn’s wrist gently, pulling him in a bit. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you like, helping me stay balanced.”

Wade grins, but he doesn’t know if Zayn can tell. _Eventually_ , Zayn will be (infuriatingly) good at reading all Wade's facial expressions -- which doesn’t help when Wade’s being cagey about his ‘emotions’ -- but right now… Not so much.

“Well if it helps,” Zayn says, smiling slightly as he puts his hand back.

The tension between them kicks up a notch, and only about 30 percent of it is awkward tension. The rest is sexual tension, minus whatever percentage is the everyday tension Wade always feels from having to exist on the mortal plane.

“Makes me feel safe,” Wade says, patting the top of Zayn’s hand reassuringly. The percentage of awkward tension immediately increases when he can’t decide whether or not he should leave his hand.

He decides to pull it back so that said awkward tension goes down, but for two glorious seconds it was _almost_ like they’re holding hands, and Wade _almost_ ascended onto another place of existence because of it.

“So ’re you working?” Zayn asks casually, staring out at the city again. His pulse is visible in his neck, fluttering under the skin.

“Me?” Wade asks, a bit surprised. Oh shit, that _is_ what he’s doing. “Oh, yeah. I guess I’m patrolling, or whatever they call it when superhumans lurk and try to spot crime from miles away.”

Zayn squints up at Wade dubiously.

“I’m a bit distracted,” Wade says pointedly. Distracted by Zayn and all Zayn’s Zayn-ness, and the _touching_. There is _touching_.

“Soz.” Zan pulls his hand away, grinning.

“I didn’t mean for that to ruin our moment,” Wade says, grabbing at Zayn’s wrist again. All this back-and-forth, honestly. All he wants is Zayn standing close enough to him that he can feel Zayn’s body heat through the leather of his suit, is that too much to ask?

Ha... _Too Much To Ask_.

“Were we having a moment?” Zayn asks, letting Wade maneuver his hand. A little higher on his thigh this time. (Just a hair. Just a smidge. A fraction of a smidge, really.)

“I was,” Wade sniffs. “It’s okay if you weren’t, but _I_ was.”

Zayn laughs and squeezes Wade’s thigh a bit. Snapchat filter hearts pop up around Wade’s head. He feels a bit dizzy.

“I think I was, too.” Zayn shrugs, biting at his bottom lip. It is a _miracle_ that Wade is still upright at this point, what the actual and literal fuck -- “S’weird, right? I’m a huge fan. Like, massive.”

“I’m sure you are,” Wade says, trying to wrangle his brain while it turns to mush. He goes heavy on the innuendo, attempting to regain his footing with this whole thing. To clarify, “Massive, and also a massive _fan_.” Zayn laughs again, higher and more embarrassed this time. Score. “I am also both.”

“Massive?” Zayn asks, amused.

“And a massive fan,” Wade agrees. He hums Dusk Till Dawn.

“I don’t think that counts.” Zayn pouts cutely. “Was a pretty popular one.”

Wade snorts. “Not in the United States.”

Zayn laughs so loudly he pitches forward, bracing himself on Wade’s leg. As thrilled as Wade is about the touching, it makes him wobble dangerously. If he falls off the building before he gets Zayn’s number, he’ll be fucking _pissed_.

“I’m just gunna --” Wade hops down off the wall so he is no longer in danger of falling to certain bone-shattering doom, and ends up standing _very_ close to Zayn. Zayn, who is actually smaller than Wade expected when he’s on his feet like this, wow. Not that Zayn is _small_ , but Wade is 6’2 and over 200 pounds, so… Yeah.

Size-difference.

One of the _best_ tropes.

They stare at each other until the awkward tension gets to be way more than Wade likes it to be in _any_ situation, but especially in Zayn Malik situations. Wade feels kind of _itchy_ and weird.

Like his whole body knows that he’s going to lose his damn mind over Zayn within less than a month, and his fight-or-flight is attempting to activate even though there is no physical danger.

“I should probably do my job,” Wade says. It’s a lie. He’s indulging the itch, but only to the extent that this is a good time to exit stage left and let the meet-cute (and fic) end in a natural way.

“Yeah, probably,” Zayn agrees, sparing a glance at the windows behind him.

“I’d say you should mingle, but you look ready to bounce,” Wade adds, following his line of sight.

The end of the night can get weird. Zayn’s been outside mingling with the local superscum for such a long time, he probably missed the opportunity to get weird with them. Zayn doesn’t seem put-out by that though, so Wade doesn’t feel guilty --

Not that he _would_ feel guilty. He got Zayn. To himself.

There was _touching_.

“I am,” Zayn agrees belatedly, looking back at Wade. He bites his lip again, and Wade can’t stop himself from groaning out loud this time.

“God, you gotta stop,” Wade grumbles, patting down his utility belt to make sure he has everything. He does, but he’s stalling.

Zayn laughs. “What?”

“Doing that, with your face.” That doesn’t really clarify, but he’s sure Zayn knows the effect his face has on literally everyone on the goddamn globe.

“Having one?” Zayn asks. He’s teasing Wade.

“No, absolutely not, keep having a face,” Wade says. “Facelessness isn’t great for like, modelling campaigns and stuff. We need more of that.”

“Universal ‘we’?” Zayn asks, digging into his pocket. Wade absolutely is not disappointed when he produces his pack of cigarettes instead of his phone. (Except he totally is.)

“ _I_ need more of that,” Wade clarifies. “I have a collection that’s nowhere near big enough.” At Zayn’s blank look, he sighs. “I said I was a fan. Specifically of your face, but the rest of it, too.”

Zayn grins and looks down, messing with the top of his pack of smokes. The tension goes up considerably, but it’s not awkward. It’s anticipatory. Wade feels like he’s about to jump off the edge of a cliff blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back, and nothing to keep him from hitting the ground hard enough to create a small crater.

Wade is thrilled at the prospect.

“You should give me your number,” Wade says quickly, before he can chicken out. A warehouse full of weapons of mass destruction and a few dozen goonies all looking to kill the fuck out of him is something he can handle _no problemo_. Getting Zayn Malik’s number? This is what fear feels like.

“Why would I do that?” Zayn asks, but he’s smiling so Wade thinks it’s okay.

“Oh y’know, if you’re bored at an extravagant party you can text me and not be bored.” Wade shrugs. “Or if you’re bored at work. Or home. Or anytime. Rain or shine.”

Smooth, Wilson.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, drifting closer. Wade’s heart is pounding so hard, it nearly hurts. “I’d like that.”

“Oh, good,” Wade says, feeling faint. Zayn Malik would _like_ giving Wade his number. Holy fucking shit balls, Batman.

When Wade leaves, he does it in a dramatic fashion, leaping over the wall so he can jump to the roof closest -- a considerable drop onto another apartment building. He looks back, can’t help himself, and Zayn is leaning out to watch him, a grin on his face. Wade gives a sloppy salute just to hear Zayn laugh.

Best night of his goddamn life.

He goes home with Zayn Malik’s name saved in his phone as _future baby daddy_.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/171455803327/it-gives-me-sexual-arousal-zaynwade-wilson) & read [Wear It Like A Bruise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582356)!


End file.
